


Blank Slates

by Aublanc



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Frostbite, Gen, Harm to Animals, Temporary Amnesia, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1986300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aublanc/pseuds/Aublanc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is a villain, and Tony is a hero. No matter how similar they are, nothing will change that; their fates are set in stone. At least, they are until a haywire spell hits the reset button.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blank Slates

“What the hell is he doing? Someone get in there and stop him!”

“I'm trying, damnit! Reindeer Games isn't exactly making this easy!”

Tony pulled his arms in close and did a barrel roll, narrowly avoiding the blast of magic thrown at him. When he straightened out, his focus was drawn to the ring of runes on top of an office building. Putrid green oozed across the ground, gushing and pulsing like living flesh, and Loki stood in the center, nurturing the dark magic. No one knew what he was trying to do, but given the wicked grin on his face, it wouldn't be pretty.

“The spell is almost finished,” Thor warned, his voice accompanied by a clap of thunder. The god tried to close the distance between him and his brother, but Loki's new allies were keeping him and the other Avengers away.

“Tony, you have to do something,” Steve said. “We can't afford to have that spell go off.”

“Does it look like I'm having a tea party over here?” Tony grit his teeth and dodged again. The magic had gotten so thick that he could barely distinguish Loki's form, and the light it exuded was bright enough to hurt his eyes. “I'm doing what I can.”

But he knew it wasn't good enough; before his eyes, the spell reached its climax. Tendrils of sludge rose up from the ground like something out of a low-budget horror film, and the air shook.

“I'm going to regret this,” Tony muttered, putting full power to his repulsors. He launched himself straight at Loki, ignoring the magic that pummeled his armor, and pierced through the noxious cloud. Just as his shoulder collided with Loki's side, the spell exploded outwards. The world went bright before dissolving into darkness.

-o-o-o-

Consciousness returned to him slowly, and the first thing he noticed was the cold. The second was that something was wrapped around his body, holding him down. When his eyes slid open, light seeped through a mask to aggravate the ache inside of his brain. He groaned and tried to move, but whatever he was trapped inside of weighed a fucking ton; his arm rose two inches before dropping back to the ground, causing the thin layer of snow to crunch.

“What the hell...?” 

His heart raced, and he sucked in a noisy breath. The stale air inside the mask wasn't enough to fill his fluttering lungs. Forcing his muscles to cooperate, he slowly lifted his arm again. This time, he managed to get his hand to his face, and clunky metal fingers prodded at the seam. He snagged something, and the mask hissed as it opened, letting in a frigid breeze and the sight of the fading sun.

His rapid breaths misted in the air, forming a constant cloud over his mouth. He lifted his head from the ground, but no matter where he looked, all he could see was snow, sky, trees, more snow, and jagged mountain tops. When the armor grew too heavy to hold up, he let his head drop back to the ground and stared up at the sky. Though he searched the empty blue expanse, it provided him with no answers.

A strong gust of wind blew flakes of snow onto his skin, and he shivered. Then he ran his tongue across his lips and opened his mouth. "Hey," he called roughly. "Is anyone there? Answer me!"

Somewhere on his right, a bird squawked loudly and flew from the trees. Once the rustle of its feathers had disappeared, oppressive silence returned.

Mustering his strength, he shouted louder, "Is this some kind of sick joke? If someone is responsible for this, I swear to God that once I get out of this stupid thing, I am going to torch your ass! I am going to-”

“You're very noisy,” a voice interrupted his rant, and he swore, trying to catapult himself away from the newcomer. The suit prohibited his movements, and he struggled against it until the burst of adrenaline faded. Then he stilled and raised his eyes to look at the stranger.

The man had somehow managed to get within feet of him without making a sound, which seemed impossible given that the dude was wearing a full set of armor, and the tails of the leather coat brushing against mounds of snow.

He took a deep breath, and then he said, "What the hell are you doing sneaking up on people? You nearly gave me a heart attack! What if you were a bear or something? Bears live in woods, don't they? Oh God, that would have sucked."

Green eyes continued to pierce through him, and his nervous chattering fell away. "Uhh, Raphael? You gonna say something, or am I supposed to just guess what you want? Because trust me, I wouldn't do a very good job of that right now."

That got him a reaction; the man's eyebrows pulled closer, and his aloof facade fell away into something more raw. "Raphael? Is that...?"

"Is that what?" he prompted, but he had a sickening feeling that he already knew the answer.

"My name. Is that my name?"

The man's eyes were wide and hopeful, but he had to answer truthfully, "No, it's... It's not. Raphael is a ninja from a cartoon. Sorry."

Not-actually-Raphael grit his teeth and tore his gaze away. “You don't have any answers.”

Though there was nothing funny about their situation, he chuckled. “No, I don't. I'm in the same boat as you.” Then he craned his head to peer into the trees that the other had come from. “Did you find anything?”

The man reluctantly shook his head.

"So... what? We just magically appeared here with no memories?" He received no answer and sighed. Metal creaked as he lifted his arm, and he waved it to get the man's attention. "Think you can get me out of here, at least?"

Overcoming his uncertainty, the other closed the distance between them and knelt to peer at the suit. When his fingers trailed across the red metal, the man inside had to keep from struggling. His response was noted, and the other pressed his lips into a thin line, drawing his hand back. "Do you know what the suit is?"

"Other than really heavy? No, I don't."

Taking care to not touch him again, the man inspected the armor. After a minute, he said, "The majority of the latches are inside. Can you not open it on your own?"

"Do you think I'd be sitting here if I could? Whatever power source it was running on isn't working now, and I don't remember if there's a fail-safe..." He trailed off with a frown, and the other raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"I... understand engineering, and I feel like if I had tools, I could fix this thing, but... I don't know why I'm in this suit or even if I'm the one who made it. Does that sound like normal amnesia to you?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never had amnesia before." Then, to his surprise, the man actually joked, "Not that I can remember, anyway."

He laughed. "I think I like you, Casper. But I'd like you more if you got me out of here."

Double checking that the action would not cause distress, the other reached forwards and dug his nails into the thin gaps between the metal plates. He tugged on the metal, causing the man inside to swear in surprise when, instead of disconnecting the pieces, he tore the metal apart as if it was paper. Dented plates were tossed aside until finally he was freed, and he extracted himself from the wreckage.

"Oh God, it's good to be out of that thing." He stretched his arms over his head and twisted his spine until it popped, and then he leaned over to inspect the armor that had ensnared him. The circuitry appeared to be damaged beyond repair, and the only thing of interest was the small engraving on the right wrist.

“Stark, huh?” He grinned wryly. “Fitting, considering that I know nothing.” The armor's limp arm dropped back to the ground as he stood. “I guess 'Stark' is as good a name as any. What about you? What do you want to be called?”

The man blankly returned his stare. “It matters not. It is just a word.”

“Alright then, but I hope you know that you're getting stuck with 'Frosty' now.” Frosty scowled, and Stark shrugged. “It's your fault for not picking a better name.”

“Then use Raphael.”

“Nope, too late to change it.” Stark spun around, pretending that he didn't feel the glare trying to burrow through the back of his head. He peered into the gloom, already unable to see the mountain tops that he had when he woke up. “So, Frosty, how far did you search earlier?”

"A few kilometers at most. I was coming around to search the other side of the mountain when I heard you. We should head there first."

Frosty stepped towards the opposite treeline, but Stark didn't follow him. All traces of the sun had disappeared from the horizon, and the waxing gibbous wasn't strong enough to cast off the weight of night. "Shouldn't we find somewhere to hole up until morning? Not to mention it's freezing out here."

Snow had melted around his shoes, seeping into his socks and soaking the hem of his jeans. When the wind blew, it knifed through his long-sleeved shirt and settled deep in his bones. Not even crossing his arms and pulling them tight to his chest could provide warmth, and he didn't need his memories to predict that in a few minutes, the chill would go from uncomfortable to dangerous.

Stopping a few feet away, Frosty turned to face Stark with his brow furrowed. "You are... cold?" he asked, as if the very idea was absurd.

"Uhh, yeah. Aren't you?" Sure, Frosty had more layers than he did, but his hands and face were still exposed to the elements.

However, the man shook his head. “The temperature is fine.”

“Lucky bastard,” Stark muttered as another gust of wind caused his teeth to chatter.

Frosty stared at him, glanced back at where the night had swallowed the mountains, and sighed. "We shall set out in the morning, then. I found a cave not too far from here."

The man stalked past him and vanished into the woods, leaving Stark to scramble to catch up. He followed the near-inaudible footsteps into the thicket, and it didn't take long before he smacked his forehead on a low-hanging branch. He cursed his luck and shoved the branch out of his way; a few feet later he tripped on a rock. Frosty, on the other hand, didn't seem to be having any trouble and was so far ahead that Stark couldn't hear him anymore.

Squinting into the night, Stark called, “Can't you slow down? I don't fancy getting lost out here!” Then he paused, backed up a few steps, and picked up a lovely looking stick. He heard footsteps coming back towards him, so he took the time to grab a few more sticks. The majority of them were damp, and his fingers started to burn.

“I thought you were eager to find shelter,” Frosty said, the ornaments on his arm glinting in the moonlight as he stepped into view.

“I am, but we'll need these once we get there.” Stark picked up a few more twigs, and once his arms were full, he motioned for Frosty to continue.

Though he was clearly irritated by the fact that not everyone in the group was as freakishly adaptable as him, Frosty did move slower, and he steered Stark around hidden stones. Despite that, Stark still ended up on his butt a few times, and his jeans got covered in freezing mud.

He was more than thrilled when they reached the cave twenty minutes later. (Clearly, Frosty did not understand what 'not too far from here' meant.) The entrance was shielded by two thick bushes, and he eagerly pushed through them into the wide stone chamber. He had to keep his head bowed to avoid the low ceiling, but the cave was shielded from the frigid winds and  _ dry _ .

Stark dropped the sticks in the center of the cave and rubbed his stiff hands together. The action did little to replenish feeling in his fingers, and after a minute he gave up, plopping down onto the ground. He clumsily arranged the wood into a pyramid, and when it did not spontaneously combust, he scowled at it.

"Guess we're doing this caveman style," Stark muttered, grabbing two sticks to rub together. His fingers refused to cooperate, and even if he did have enough mobility to move them faster, he couldn't recall if the stick trick actually worked or if it was just a Hollywood thing.

Giving up, he dropped the sticks back into the pile and hung his head. “This is just great. Absolutely  _ fantastic _ .” He raised his hands to his mouth and blew on them, but he could no longer feel his breath against his skin. Then he looked up to see Frosty observing him from the other side of the wannabe fire. "How about you give it a shot, Mr. I'm-Not-Cold?"

Frosty didn't move. "Give what a shot?"

"What do you think? I'm trying to make a fire. Why else would I sit here rubbing sticks together?" The look Stark received made it clear that Frosty thought him rubbing sticks together for the hell of it was not inconceivable, and he groaned. "Right. Whatever. But could you be helpful for just one minute? I think I'm getting frostbite."

“Do not think I will coddle you,” Frosty warned, but he raised his hand. However, instead of taking the sticks like he was expected to, he waved towards the tinder. With a snap, the twigs burst into flames, and Stark, whose hands were inches from the fire pit, yelped and leapt to his feet, banging the back of his head against the stone ceiling.

"What the hell did you just do?" he asked, raising a shaking finger to point at Frosty. "You just- You-"

"You wanted a fire, so I made you a fire. Would you have preferred that I did it your way?"

"No, I..." His finger lowered, and he looked back at the crackling flames. They sputtered occasionally from the moisture in the wood but were otherwise going strong. "You know what? Forget it."

He stepped towards the fire and sat down, rubbing at the sore spot on his crown. While the flames had been dubiously created, they were perfect at chasing the numbness from his fingertips, and his muscles eased as he finally stopped shivering. Frosty remained far away from both him and the glorious warmth, and when he rose to his feet, it was only to slip past the bushes and into the woods.

Stark watched the entrance for a minute, but when the other man didn't return, he shrugged and eased himself to the ground. Although the ground was jagged and he had just been unconscious for who knows how long, he found himself drifting off. The fire became a blur of orange and red, and the heat cocooned him like a blanket.

When the fire abruptly crackled and hissed, he started, but upon opening his eyes, he realized that Frosty had just put more wood into the flames.

"Thanks," Stark murmured, and then he slipped into dreams of towering buildings, flying suits, and villains that coaxed oozing flames to life.

-o-o-o-

His fingertips rubbed raw against the denim of his jeans as he tried to cram his hands into his pockets. Though he finally managed to get them in, the damp material did nothing to keep out the cold, and when he tripped for the hundredth time, he couldn't pull his hands free fast enough to keep from ramming into a tree. Dry skin burned from the impact, and he groaned into the bark.

Ahead of him, Frosty traversed the undergrowth with the grace of a deer, completely ignoring his companion's plight. He'd hardly spoken since they left the cave that morning, and when he did, his words were terse and rude. Stark glared at his back.

“Has anyone told you that you're a real pain in the ass?” he asked, quickening his pace so he didn't fall behind. “Because you are. I bet you didn't have any friends. Hell, I hope  _ we're _ not friends, because if we are, then I'm going to seriously question my life choices.”

A branch barred Frosty's path, and the man tore it from the tree to toss it behind him; Stark had to duck to avoid getting hit. It did, however, stop his rambling, and he contented himself with thinking unsavory things about the Frost Queen.

But after they traveled another mile, even that lost its ability to distract him from piercing wind and ache in his bones. No matter what he did, the air leeched his warmth, and his hands were mottled red and grey. Inside his muddy shoes, he couldn't even feel his toes. It was like his body no longer belonged to him, and he was just controlling it with damaged strings.

His foot caught on a root, and his sluggish limbs couldn't prevent him from toppling over. The breath was knocked from his lungs and misted in the air. He tried to rise to his feet, but his hands felt like they were on fire when he set them on the ground, and his muscles quivered. He collapsed, noticing with detached interest that he could no longer feel his face.

Frosty continued to walk for a while, but when Stark didn't make another attempt to move, he eventually stopped. “What are you doing? Get up.”

“Nah, I don't think I will.” Stark pulled his hands in towards his chest and curled around them. “This seems like as good of a place to take a break as any.”

Despite what Frosty seemed to think, he wasn't an idiot, and he knew that he was going to freeze to death long before they found any trace of civilization. If they had stayed in the cave, he might have at least been able to stave off frostbite, but out in the open like this, he didn't stand a chance. His eyes slid shut.

Stark spent about a minute wallowing in self-pity before something heavy dropped onto him. He grunted and opened his eyes to see black leather hanging across his face. It took a moment for him to realize what it was, and then clawed hands pulled the material flush against his skin.

Finally shielded from the icy winds, he lifted his head to regard Frosty. The man was removing his undercoat, and soon, it too was handed over. “What... what are you doing?” Stark asked, pulling the fabric off of his head and forcing his body to sit up. “You can't give this to me. You'll freeze.”

Though Frosty was now in nothing but his leather pants and a thin undershirt, he looked as unperturbed as ever. “I don't feel the cold, and I'd rather not have to carry you. Now put those on.”

“But-”

“I'm fine. Now unless you want me to change my mind, put them on.”

Stark didn't need to be told again; he fumbled with the thick material and shoved his arms into the undercoat's sleeves. It took a minute to buckle it closed, and then he repeated the process with the second coat. It was harder to pull on, what with its useless straps and ornaments, but the extra weight was forgivable for the warmth it provided.

However, when he tried to stand, he found that he couldn't; the numbness had spread past his toes, and it hurt to put weight on his feet. He winced and eased back to the ground. “You willing to give up those nice boots of yours, too?”

Though the comment was intended to be facetious, Frosty reached down and began to tug off his boots. Stark stared at him, flabbergasted, and the first boot smacked him in the chest. The second boot and two thick socks followed soon after, leaving Frosty barefoot on the frozen soil; he didn't even flinch.

“Uhh... Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, because I really do, but are you sure that this is a good idea? I mean, it's like ten degrees out here, and I'm pretty sure your feet are bigger than mine.”

Frosty waved his concerns away. “You'll be better off with shoes that are too large than losing your toes. Once you've warmed up, we'll continue.”

Realizing that the man wasn't going to change his mind, Stark sighed and put on both Frosty's socks and his own. There was still too much toe room, so he settled with packing dry-ish moss into the boots until his feet fit. It was a hassle, but after a few minutes, feeling returned to his toes, and he was able to stand. Now the only thing exposed to the cold was his ears, which...

“You wouldn't happen to have a hat, would you?”

“I have this, which should serve you well enough.” Frosty offered him a mound of green fabric that Stark was certain had not been there a second ago.

“You... did you just pull this out of thin air?”

Before he could get any ideas, Frosty clarified, “I didn't make it. It was merely... stored elsewhere. There's nothing else there besides a helmet that would do you more harm than good.”

Stark wasn't convinced, but he folded the cape into a turban-esque hat and pulled it down around his ears before pursuing his curiosity. “So... You don't get cold, you can make fires, and now you can store stuff in trans-dimension pockets. What else  _ can _ you do? Actually, the better question would be: are you even human?”

“My skill set regrettably does not include anything helpful beyond that.” Frosty turned and began to walk away, purposely not answering the second question. When Stark didn't move, he called over his shoulder, “I would suggest that you stop delaying. There's a lot of ground we have to cover in order to find out where we are.”

-o-o-o-

Stark huddled next to the fire, his arms wrapped around his chest. Across from him, Frosty leaned back against a tree —they sadly did not have the luxury of another cave—and turned his hands over in the faint light. The man's skin had turned pale blue only an hour after he sacrificed his clothes, but though it had caused Stark to panic, he had been assured that it was not a problem. Still, Frosty seemed confused by it, and he brooded in silence.

To distract him, Stark asked, "How long do you think it will take for us to get out of here?"

Green eyes shifted to him, and blue hands were pulled back into the shadows. "I do not know. The mountains are vast, and there is a chance that we are heading in the wrong direction."

"Do you think anyone's loo king for us? I mean, surely someone knows we're out here?"

That was a question Frosty couldn't answer, and Stark was all too aware of the gaping holes in his knowledge. There was information, certainly—he knew the most random facts, and certain instances caused déjà vu—but he had know idea where it had come from. Anything and everything personal had been obliterated, and he felt like more like a ghost than a person.

He sighed. "I wish we knew our names, or at least  _ something _ personal. Right now, I feel like a nobody."

Though Frosty made a disinterested huff, he had lifted his hands out of obscurity, and the fire gleamed on the taut lines of his tendo ns. Unidentifiable expressions warred on his face before eerie calmness took their place. He jerkily laid his body onto the ground and stared into the flames.

"We'll set out as soon as the sun rises." Then Frosty closed his eyes, indicating that the time to talk was over. While Stark normally ignored such cues, he saw the way that the man's fingers twitched and curled in on themselves; under blue skin, a storm was brewing.

So instead of pushing their boundaries and seeing what it'd take to break the carefully sculpted mask, he contented himself with grabbing more wood for the fire and laying down. The ground was stiff, and even with the cape as a makeshift pillow, he could not get comfortable. Unlike the first night, where he had slipped easily into deep sleep, he couldn't get his mind to settle. He laid there, just as tense as the other, until even the owls grew tired.

-o-o-o-

After the excitement of waking up without memories on a godforsaken mountain wore off, trekking through the woods became tedious. It wasn't pleasant by any means, but other than putting one foot in front of the other while bemoaning life, there was nothing to do. And boredom was apparently something that Stark didn't handle well.

"Are you  _ sure _ you don't want to play I Spy?” he asked, bounding to keep up with Frosty; the closer he got, the faster the other seemed to move. “Because I can think of loads of stuff. Like, there's snow and mountains. No one would guess those. And trees. Lots of trees to pick from."

One such tree scratched his face as he passed beneath it, and he growled. When it did nothing to repent, he let it go and continued to blather. "I'm tired. Are we going to take a break soon? And can't you find us something better to eat than roots? I'm having a craving for pizza. Oh, and wine. Or maybe something a bit stronger. God knows I could use it."

Finally, he reached the end of Frosty's patience. "You would save more energy if you stopped talking."

"And you'd save more energy if you stopped being such a grouch," he countered, which earned him a glower that he gladly returned. "I can't believe I thought I might actually like you. What happened to you making jokes, huh? I know you have a sense of humor somewhere in there. Or did the cold freeze that, too?"

As he talked, the path narrowed and abruptly ended, ground giving way to a massive ravine. Frosty didn't even blink. He leapt over the edge and deftly grabbed the rock wall. A few hundred feet below, the ground awaited with jagged boulders.

"Oh hell no," Stark said, digging his heels in while Frosty scuttled down the wall, bare feet finding invisible ledges to balance on. "There's no way I'm trying that."

Frosty stared balefully back at him. "It's the fastest way down." He took another step, displacing loose rocks. They hurtled towards the bottom.

Stark's stomach clenched, and he took a step back. "I think I'd rather double back and find a different way."

"Then do so. I'm not going to wait."

The gap between the two continued to grow, and Stark paced anxiously, going from the edge of the cliff, to the treeline, and back again. He tried to construct a map in his head, but from what he could remember, the path had split miles ago. Even then, he wasn't sure if he could find his way down, and while Frosty was an insufferable brat, Stark was not so naive as to think that he'd survive for long on his own.

Inching towards the edge, he asked, "Are you sure we can't go around?"

More rocks clattered as Frosty leapt to the side, nearly slipping as the wall settled. Then he looked up with his patented scowl. "It's not that hard. Just go where I've gone."

"Right, because  _ obviously _ we're the same height," Stark retorted, but a gust of freezing wind forced him to make a decision. Getting separated from Frosty meant getting separated from the fire. And from food, since he was certain that if he tried to go Bear Grylls, he'd poison himself with the first mushroom he found.

Swallowing down his apprehension, Stark leaned over the edge and grabbed onto the handholds Frosty had used. "If Merlin can do it, I can do it." Then, not giving his brain enough time to remind him that he was being stupid, he put a foot over the edge.

The first step wasn’t that hard, and neither was the second. But then the incline got worse, and the crevices he shoved his fingers into became few and far between. Taking a deep breath, he leapt to reach the next grip; his hip slammed painfully against the wall. Breathing heavily, he did it again.

But his hands burned against the frozen stone, and Frosty's oversized clothing was tripping him up. His pace slowed, and halfway down, he was forced to stop; he had run out of handholds. There had to be something, because Frosty was nearly at the bottom, but though he nearly fell looking for one, he couldn't find it.

As he hung there, he could barely feel the cliff dig into the pads of his fingers. Each minute that he wasted only made it worse; his remaining strength leeched from his bones. Forsaking his pride, Stark called down, "Uhh, Everest? How did you get past this point?"

He was surprised when Frosty actually deigned to reply: "There should be a foothold on your left." But he had already tried his left foot; there was nothing he could reach.

"Screw this," he muttered and switched his attention to going back up the way he had come. However, when he stretched his arm to grab the rock he had used earlier, he found that he could no longer reach it. Even if he could, the plateau was over a hundred feet away, and he doubted his quivering muscles could drag him back up.

He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. “Okay... Here goes nothing.” He extended his leg as far as he could, looking desperately for the foothold Frosty had mentioned. He thought he saw it, but it was still half a foot away. He slackened his grip, easing himself downwards. But he was tired, and his hands could not support his weight; he slipped.

He didn't remember screaming, but as they sat around the firing that evening, Frosty made certain to tell him that he had, loudly. All he remembered as gravity dragged him down was sheer panic. There hadn't been time for his life to flash before his eyes—it wasn't like he had the memories for that anyway—or for him to even think about stopping himself. It was just him and the fanged earth below.

But then something latched onto his forearm and yanked upwards. His arm was nearly pulled out of its socket, and his side rammed into the wall, expelling the air from his lungs with a moan.

“You idiot,” Frosty hissed above him, tightening his grip. Though Stark was far from light, even after losing a few pounds on his berry and bark diet, the man's grip was like iron. His hand didn't slip even when Stark clawed his way up to a ridge in an effort to relieve the pressure from his shoulder.

Once Stark had stabilized himself, he lifted his gaze to Frosty. The man's fingers had gouged bloody furrows into the rock, and despite his insult, his eyes were wide as he looked between Stark and the ground.

“You could have  _ died _ .” This time, Frosty's voice was more worry than anger.

“Yeah, well, who was the one that insisted we climb down the side of a cliff?” Stark's voice came out too high-pitched, and he tried to slow his breathing. Once he had more control of himself, he said, “Trust me, I have no interest in dying any time soon.”

For the first time, Frosty looked chagrined by his foul attitude, but that didn't stop him from defending, “Climbing down should not have been difficult.”

“For you, maybe, but I'm convinced now that you aren't human.” Which really, he should have decided that when he saw the blue skin. “But me? I definitely am, and I'm going to guess that I'm not a rock climber.” His eyes were unwittingly drawn back down. “Uhh... thanks for catching me by the way.”

“You say that like I would have let you die.”

“Does that honestly comes as a surprise to you? You can't say that you've been Mr. Friendly since we met.”

Frosty grit his teeth, and Stark thought he'd come up with another excuse, but then the man finally got off his high horse. With his head bowed, Frosty said, “My apologies, then. You of all people should understand that this is not the... easiest of situations to find oneself in.”

“Oh, don't get me wrong, Prancer. I understand completely. I'm a stranger and this sucks. But you're stuck with me until we find civilization, so you know, you might as well play nice.” Then he grinned, dry skin cracking with the movement. “Besides, I won't tell anyone that you're secretly a softy underneath all that grumpiness.”

“I will shove you off this wall, Nobody,” Frosty threatened.

Stark's grin got wider. “No you won't.” And then he paused. “Wait, did you just call me 'Nobody'?”

-o-o-o-

Stark only had to face plant five times before Frost decided that enough was enough. He came to a stop and waited for Stark to pick himself up off the ground and brush twigs off of himself, and then he said, “Wait here. I'll find our shelter for the night.”

“Thank God,” Stark muttered, shambling over to a boulder and sitting on it to take the weight off of his blistering toes. Then he raised his scabrous hands and inspected the day's damage until the air grew too cold, forcing him to retreat into the protection of his coat.

It took a long time for Frosty to return, and when he did, his lips were downturned. “There's nothing satisfactory in the area. We could go a few more miles, but I doubt we'll find anything.”

Stark was shaking his head before Frosty had finished speaking. “While I'd love to find a nice, cozy cave, I don't think my feet can handle these boots much longer. Some days, I think I'd prefer frostbite to having my feet rubbed raw from walking all day.”

Frosty's frown deepened. “If we don't make haste, we won't find a town before winter. And if that happens, you-”

“I know,” Stark interrupted. “I'm not saying we need to slow down, okay? Tomorrow morning I'll stockpile some more moss. It helps with the chafing.” Though not nearly enough, and he had to grit his teeth when he slid to the ground and jolts of pain went through his feet. “So, are we setting up camp here or is there somewhere better?”

Before the incident at the cliff, Frosty would have demanded that he kept going — wouldn't have stopped in the first place — but now he took heed of Stark's wince. “We'll stay here for the night.”

Then he vanished into the darkness a second time, leaving Stark to kneel down and scoop away frozen dirt. Once he had cleared out a wide circle, he ringed the edges of the pit with stones. Frosty returned promptly with wood, and in minutes, they had a beautiful fire.

After warming up his hands, Stark schlucked off his boots and winced at the red stain around his toes; it had grown since he'd last seen it. He gently wiggled the socks off examined his cracked, bubbling skin in the firelight.

“I hope to God that this doesn't get infected...” He tried to wipe the blood off, but all he managed to do was smear it across his skin. Were his mouth not so dry, he might have tried to spit-shine his feet. As it was, he gave up on cleaning them and set them and the socks near the flames to dry. Then he unwound the cape from around his head and wrapped it around his shoulders; his nose wrinkled. “Ugh, this thing  _ reeks _ .”

“You could always try washing it,” Frosty said as he stalked through their campsite and circled around the surrounding trees.

“And end up walking around all day in damp clothes?” Stark snorted. “Yeah, no thank you. I'd rather brave the smell. Though I don't think you'll want any of these clothes back when we finally get out of here.”

“I have every intention of burning them afterwards,” Frosty said blithely, and Stark snickered, though the sound was more of a wheeze than a laugh. He clutched the cape tighter around his shoulders.

“See, this is so much easier when you actually talk to me. It's just the two of us. Might as well say something.”

“Because discussing science with you is a valid use of our time.”

Frosty stopped under the tree a few feet from Stark and, after appraising it for a minute, nimbly grabbed one of the branches to haul himself up. In seconds, he disappeared into the foliage.

“What in the world are you doing up there?” Stark asked. “The ground is uncomfortable enough for sleeping.”

“Then it's a good thing I have no intention of sleeping,” Frosty replied, his voice accompanied by the creaking of bark and rustling of leaves. “I heard wolves as we were crossing the ravine.”

When the implications of that statement registered, Stark grabbed one of the rocks surrounding the fire pit and pulled it towards him. “How close?”

“No more than a few miles.” Then he paused, and Stark could see the glint of eyes watching him from a high branch. “It should not be a problem. Wolves rarely attack humans.”

“Yeah, well, rarely doesn't mean never.” He peered out into the darkness, and there was a whisper on wind that sounded suspiciously like a howl. “I'd rather not get my face bitten off.”

-o-o-o-

A fanged maw dove for Stark's throat, and he swore, twisting his torso around to slam a rock into white fur. The wolf yelped and rolled off of him, but another took its place. Stark scurried backwards and tripped over the hem of his coat, causing him to crash to the ground. A mouth wrapped around his ankle, digging in his boots, and he lashed out, kicking a fur covered chest.

Rolling to his feet, he backed away from the advancing pack only to stop when he noticed that one of the wolves had gotten behind him. Its gold eyes peered out from the underbrush, and when it moved, the light reflected off of its grey fur.

“Damnit,” he muttered, angling his body to keep the wolf in his sights. Another crept into his blind spot, but when he whirled towards it, the wolf in the trees stepped closer. “I knew I should have stuck with Frosty.”

Keeping his eyes on the wolves, Stark leaned down to pick up another stone. When he tossed it into the air, he saw their eyes track it warily. But though a wolf whimpered, its limping steps turning the snow red, the others were too hungry to heed the warning. The pack advanced on him with measured steps, and his eyes darted between them while he clutched the rock tighter.

They lunged, and he swung at the closest one, slamming the rock into its skull. It went down just as fangs ripped through his coat and dug into his elbow. Searing pain coursed through his arm, and the rock tumbled from his hands. When another wolf went for his jugular, only a frantic dive saved him from its teeth. His head smacked against the ground, and before he could recover, the last wolf charged him.

What happened next moved too quickly for Stark to see. All he knew was that one second he had been staring death in the face, and the next, Frosty was standing over him with coiled muscles and a furious expression. The man didn't need a weapon to fight back, and he kicked the attacking wolf in the chest. It slammed into the ground, and when others took its place, they too were thrown back.

Only one of the wolves rose from the earth, and it backed away from them with a whine. It looked from them to its pack, strewn lifelessly across the snow, and its tail tucked under. It keened again, lowering its muzzle to prod at its kin beside it. The other wolf did not move.

Frosty stepped forwards threateningly, and the lone survivor's instincts won out; it turned and fled, vanishing into the woods. Stark watched it go, and his adrenaline went with it. He stumbled, and his breath came out in pants. Frosty glanced over at him in concern, but he waved the man away.

Then he became aware of the ragged breathing that did not belong to him; he lifted his head to see that one of the downed wolves was still alive. Its gold eyes roved inside its skull, and its paws kicked feebly in the air. When he took a cautious step towards it, prepared to fight if he had to, it was too far gone to react.

Unbidden, his feet continued to bring him towards the wolf, and he knelt by her side. She gasped and whined, the sounds enticing him to reach out and run his hand through blood-stained fur. He could feel the wolf's every rib through her pelt, and as he traced the harsh contours, her chest swelled with each rapid breath.

He frowned. “So you're starving too, huh? Is that why you came after me?”

Then his eyes were drawn to the source of the crimson streaks, and the effects of his actions stared back at him: blood welled from a wide gash, and under it, bone was smashed inwards. Guilt welled at the sight of the wolf's mangled skull, and though Stark knew it had been kill or be killed, he regretted swinging the stone.

“You'd be better off putting her out of her misery,” Frosty said as he approached; one of the dead wolves was slung over his shoulder, and its blood oozed down his shirt.

“Yeah...” But as he ran his fingers through her fur, feeling her body tremble, he couldn't bring himself to finish what he had started. Instead, as the wolf's body warmed his scabbed fingers, he admitted, “There are some days where I feel like it'd be better if someone put us out of our misery.”

“Don't be melodramatic,” Frosty said, but his voice was weary. He hefted the wolf higher with a grimace that was accentuated by his sharper-than-normal cheek bones.

“I wish I was just being dramatic, but come on, it's been six weeks and we haven't found anything. Do you really think we're getting out of here anytime soon? Not to mention that it's getting colder every day.”

Beneath Stark's hands, the wolf finally succumbed to its injury; her struggling slowed, and her chest stopped rising. The fire that had burned in her eyes was extinguished.

Stark averted his eyes, but the wolf's empty stare followed him even as he climbed to his feet.

“You give up far too easily, Nobody,” Frosty said, taking another step forwards; he spared the wolf but a glance.

“Yeah, well, it's hard to motivate myself when I don't even know who I am. What if I'm not even a good person? I know enough about making weapons to take out a country. What if it'd be better if I died out here?”

“You spend too much time thinking. Even if you were evil, what does it matter? Serve yourself, and if no one wants you, make them.”

Stark chuckled drily. “I don't think you understand how the whole 'motivational speaking' thing is supposed to go.”

But even though his doubts remained, he put one foot in front of the other; the bodies in the snow, losing their warmth to the frigid air, were left behind without another glance.

-o-o-o-

A cough shook Stark's frame, and he groaned in misery as he retreated further into his coat. The scent of sweat and mud filled his nose, causing him to cough again, and something wet rattled in his lungs. When he tried to get closer to the fire, the wind blew the pillar of smoke at him, causing him to wheeze; he kept his distance.

Footsteps approached, and he glanced up to see Frosty ducking under the overhang. The man was bare-chested, revealing an expanse of scarred blue flesh, and his shirt was hanging from his hand while the other balanced a cup of water. Stark raised an eyebrow.

“Not that I don't appreciate the view, but why in the world did you take your shirt off?” he asked as the man came up to him; the words came out in a croak, and he coughed again.

Rolling his eyes, Frosty set his shirt down, and the fabric fell to the sides to reveal a pile of assorted vegetation. 

"Oh, great: salad. Again." However, his displeasure did not stop him from grabbing a handful of berries and shoving them in his mouth. The bitter juices coated his tongue and dribbled down his chin, making him grimace, but he forced himself to swallow. Frosty offered him the water—held in a cup made by hollowing out a branch with flames—and he took it. Wood bristles brushed against his lips as he chased down the vile fruit with equally vile water.

"Ugh. It tastes like ash and dirt." He shoved the cup back at Frosty and leaned his head back against the rock wall. His eyes closed, but the dark of his eyelids was not enough to stop the firelight from stabbing into his brain. 

"You should eat more," insisted, and Stark didn't need to look to know that the man was hovering over him.

"I will later." 

Frosty made a sound that roughly translated into, 'Why do I have to be in charge of this idiot?' Then, when that did nothing to get Stark to lift his head, he swiftly kicked the man's foot. 

With a yelp that tapered off into a groan, Stark opened his eyes to glare at Frosty. The man was unrepentant, and he pointed at the food. "I'm not going to repeat myself."

"Fine, fine," Stark muttered, pulling the shirt-turned-bowl closer. "I will." He shoved the foul mixture into his mouth, and as he chewed, he gave Frosty a pointed look. 

Satisfied, the other said, "I'll get more water and see if I can't find anything else. I should be back in a few hours. If something is wrong, call for me."

At Stark's nod, Frosty headed towards the exit, pausing to throw more branches into the campfire as he passed. Once he was gone, Stark gave the greenery before him a mutinous glare. However, his stomach growled at him, and he reluctantly continued to eat until nothing remained. Then he lowered himself to the ground and brought his knees up to his chest. 

Neither the shuddering of his lungs nor the dampness of his clothes could keep Stark from drifting into a restless sleep. Fever dreams seized his mind, and his legs jerked as he and an army of nameless, faceless figures waged war against a beast made of oozing green light. Each time the monster struck him, it stole more and more of his memories, and his features started to blur until he was nothing more than a shadow beneath his army's feet.

"Nobody.  _ Nobody _ ." A hand shook his shoulder, dispelling the images, though it took longer for it to shake off the feeling that he was forgetting something important. He moaned, struggling to separate nightmare from reality. "Nobody, get up."

"I am," he mumbled, but his eyes were half-mast and his brain muddled. His breath caught in his throat.

But for all of his concern earlier, Frosty did not have the patience to wait for him. "Wake up. You need to see this."

It was those words that finally breached the haze and made Stark realize that the other man was not frustrated — he was eager. Confused, Stark dragged himself fully into consciousness and lifted himself onto his elbow. Frosty stepped back to give him room, but that did nothing to obscure the sight of the man's manic eyes.

Stark wasn't sure if he should be worried or excited by the strange behavior, so he asked, "What is it? Did something happen?"

Something was shoved into his face, and he blinked at it without comprehension. "You... found a new cup?" he asked, squinting at the shiny bean can that had been filled to the brim with slush. "What's so special about that?"

He received a flat, unimpressed look. "Has the chill killed your brain, or have you always been this daft?"

"Hey, I'll have you know that I-"

Then it clicked, and he froze with his mouth half-open. He stared at the can that was untarnished by rust and had scraps of paper held to it by a line of adhesive. It was someone's trash, and yet, when he took it from Frosty, he held it with something akin to reverence.

"Where did you find this?"

"About an hour from here, to the east."

"Was there... was there more?"

Frosty nodded. "There's an entire campsite about thirty miles from here. Judging by the state of the firepit, people were using it less than a week ago."

The man's pleased smile was contagious, and for the first time since he found himself abandoned in this godforsaken place, Stark felt warm.

"We're close. I can't believe it. We're.... We might actually get out of here alive." A cough tickled his lungs, but he squashed it down. "Do you think they might come back, or...?"

"I doubt they'd return so soon, but they left trails."

"Then we should leave now, before it rains and obscures the path." Stark set the can down and made to get up, but Frosty stopped him.

"We'll wait a few days before we move."

"What?" Stark squawked. "But we're so close! If we leave now, we can find where they came from. Maybe they're still camping close by. We can-"

Stark's voice grew too loud, and the cough that he had tried to hold back slipped free. It tore through him with ten times the ferocity, making him feel like his lungs were about to rip themselves from his chest. His eyes watered, and he could barely pull in a breath before it was forced from him.

When the chest-shaking hacks began to slow, he found that Frosty had crouched down next to him. Once the man knew he had Stark's attention, he picked the can up from the ground and pushed it into his hands. The icy water splashed onto his scaly fingers. "Drink."

He did, letting the cold water soothe his throat. Then he set the can down and inhaled deeply, causing the mess of scars on his chest to shift. 

Frosty waited until he had enough breath to talk to say, "You won't be able to make the trip in this condition."

"When did you become such a mother hen?" Stark grumbled, but he knew the other was right; he could barely stand, let alone walk however many miles to the camp site.

"When it became clear that you lack proper regard for your own safety." But then Frosty frowned and turned to look back the way he had come.

Stark matched his expression as he rubbed his sternum, trying and failing to will away to tightness in his lungs. “I can travel. Really, my cough isn’t that bad. We can-”

“Your death will accomplish nothing. You’ll remain here.” There was an unspoken ‘but’ following his words, and at Stark’s raised eyebrow, Frosty said, "I’m going to follow the path alone. If I run, I can travel a considerable distance. I’ll make markers that won't be weathered down, so when you're ready, we will have directions."

"...How long will you be gone?"

"No more than two days." Frosty watched as Stark dissolved into another coughing fit despite his efforts to stave it off. After it had passed, he said, "I do not want to return to find you dead or eaten by beasts. If I leave, can you manage yourself?"

Stark shrugged. "All I have to do is keep the fire going, right? Shouldn't be too hard."

Given Frosty’s expression, the man knew he was lying, but they had no choice but to try. "I will collect you enough firewood and food for two days. As for water... I will bring enough ice to be of use to you."

"And if you're gone for more than two days?"

Frosty shook his head. "I won't be."

-o-o-o-

When his breathing grew too shallow and his steps clumsy, Frosty didn't bother asking him if he needed a break. The man came to a stop, and Stark gratefully did the same. He gracelessly slid to the ground and leaned back against the trees, trying to get more air into his lungs. It took a few minutes for the burning to recede and a few more before his breathing calmed. Then he let his head roll so he was facing Frosty.

“How much farther do you think we have to go?”

“A town can't be more than a few days from here at the pace we're going. The people making these campsites and trails have to come from somewhere.”

“Unless they're driving all the way out here.”

“Then we'll get help on the road. It doesn't matter who we find as long as they have the means to help.”

“Yeah...” Stark honestly couldn't remember what it felt like to be comfortable, to not have the cold crack his flesh and burn his lungs, but he thought that it had to be nice. It was the anticipation of warmth and soft clothes that allowed him to climb back to his feet, and he smothered a cough to say, “Let's get moving.”

Frosty did not argue with his decision, and they continued to walk for hours. Though Stark was unimaginably tired, his spirits were bolstered each time they came across a sign of humans. Whether it be a full campsite, a hiking trail, or just a piece of trash, it reassured him that they weren't alone in the world. 

But even with that evidence paving the way, Stark could hardly believe his eyes when rooftops split the monotony of trees.

"...Is that?" He met Frosty's eyes, seeing the same nervous excitement reflected there. "Oh my God, we've found it. We've finally found it."

Stark broke out into a run, using energy that he didn't even know he had. Rocks skidded from beneath his feet, and he would have tumbled into a ravine were it not for Frosty grabbing the back of his coat at the last second. But he didn't let that slow him, and though they had to deviate from their path when the incline became too steep, the buildings remained beacons in the nothingness.

Despite his lingering illness, Stark was practically bursting from his skin by the time the forest spit them out onto paved roads, and he let out an excited whoop. "Sweet, sweet civilization!" Then he spun around to face Frosty, who had stopped before the pavement with his lips pressed into a thin line. "What's the matter, Iceman? Aren't you excited? We can finally shower! Eat hot food!" Stark turned back to the town, raising his arms as if to embrace it. "No more sleeping in a cave using rocks as pillows!"

“No more listening to your incessant chatter,” Frosty said, finally stepping forwards. He stopped by Stark's side, and the other man did a double-take when he noticed that Frosty's skin had reverted back to white. He understood why when his eyes were drawn to the people gathering farther down the street.

Stark stared back at them before calling, “Hey!” and waving his arms above his head. “What does a man have to do to get a beer around here?”

No one replied; they glanced between each other and talked too quietly for him to make out. He slowly lowered his hands. “What's their problem?”

Then someone shouted back at him, but Stark couldn't understand a thing he had said. He looked towards Frosty and said, “I know it's been a while, but there's no way that was English. What should we do? Maybe they have a translator or- ”

“Мы пришли из лесу,” Frosty said, walking past Stark towards the gathered crowd. “Мы не причиним вам никакого вреда.”

Stark stared at him in surprise, but the townspeople met the thick syllables with smiles. Their wary stances eased, and a large man with a burly coat spoke back. Frosty stopped in front of him and continued talking, occasionally gesturing towards the mountain or Stark. The people listened with rapt attention, and as the tale unfolded, many looked on with sympathy. One woman offered her topmost coat to Frosty, which he accepted after only a moment's hesitation.

It took a few minutes for the conversation to wind down, then Frosty spoke in the one language Stark could understand. “They said they'll take us to the police and see if they can figure out how we got here.”

“Did you ask about-”

“They said they have showers we can use at the station,” the man answered before he even finished the question. “And no, I didn't tell them that we don't remember anything. Just that we don't know why we're here or where here is—Russia, by the way. Are either of us Russian?”

“Considering I don't speak it? I sure as hell am not. As for you...” Stark shrugged. “No idea. You have a British accent, so I assumed you were, you know, British, but... That was some damn fine Russian, Molotov.” Then he noticed that they were attracting curious stares, and he inched closer to Frosty. “So, we going to the police or not?”

Frosty relayed his desire to get moving, and the gruff man nodded. He waved away the curious onlookers and led them through the streets. The town was small, and ten minutes later, their guide was leading them inside the police department. He warmly greeted the woman at the front desk, and then he gestured at them. The officer frowned as she looked between the two filthy men. 

She asked them a series of questions, all of which Frosty handled with ease. With each reply, her eyebrows rose higher, and Stark doubted that she would have believed them if they didn't look like they went through Hell. But as it was, she listened to their crazy story (or at least Stark was pretty sure that's what Frosty was saying. For all he knew, they could be discussing sports), and when it was over, she spoke into a handheld transceiver. 

As she spoke to whoever was on the other end, their guide exchanged quick words to Frosty, nodded at Stark, and then left. A few minutes later, the officer set her HT down and gestured them towards the chairs in the lobby.

They took a seat, and after a minute, Stark snatched a newspaper off the table. He skimmed through it, but nothing was in English, and the pictures and dates that he could understand meant nothing to him. He sighed, put it back, and reached for a second paper.

“I wish I knew how long we were out there,” he said as he was met with the same results. “Or why. Do you think anyone has been looking for us? What if we're like... famous or something?”

“Don't flatter yourself, Nobody.”

Frosty grinned at Stark's irritation, but then his lips pressed into a thin line as a second officer emerged from the back of the facility. He and the woman at the front desk spoke in hushed voices, and then he nodded and walked towards the waiting area.

“You two are American?” he asked with a thick accent thick. 

“Uhh, yeah. Something like that,” Stark replied, chucking the magazine to the side.

“I'm Officer Volkov. My colleague said that you two woke up in the woods a few weeks ago and don't know how you got there?”

“Got it in one.” Stark flashed him a cocky grin while his fingers worried at the armrest. “But can't we save this interrogation stuff for later? I, for one, am starving, and I think my beard has fleas.”

Volkov took in their bedraggled appearances and nodded. “We need to get your names and take fingerprints first, but then we can get you something to eat and let you shower.” He stepped away from them and towards the door he had come through. “Please follow me, Misters...?”

Neither of them offered him a name, and they exchanged looks. Frosty raised an eyebrow, and Stark grit his teeth. He tilted his head in the direction of the cop, whose expression was turning suspicious, and Frosty shrugged.

Then, with a sigh, Stark turned back to the man. “I figured we'd have to spill the beans eventually. We don't know what our names are.”

Vollkov's brows pulled together. “You don’t have names?”

“Not that we remember. Your guess is as good as ours.”

At first, the man looked like he was going to challenge their claim, but then he nodded. “Stranger things have happened these days. After those aliens in America, I'm willing to believe anything is possible. Now come on. We'll search your prints and see if we can't figure this out.”

They obediently followed the man and went through the process of filing a report and getting their prints taken. As their information was run against the system, Volkov led them past empty jail cells and into a communal bathroom. He unlocked a cabinet in the corner and pulled out toiletries along with plain cotton pants and t-shirts. 

“This should be good enough for now,” he said and handed them the supplies. “Hopefully we'll figure out who you are and get you home. If not, we'll try something else. Alright?”

At their nods, the man left, and Stark was left staring at the soft fabric clenched in his frostbitten hands. He had spent weeks trying to escape from the wilderness, but now that he was safe inside a building with heat and working water, he couldn't wrap his mind around it. The mountains were all he knew, and he felt that in a minute, he'd be woken up to find that it was all a dream.

Frosty did not seem to share his fear; he set his supplies down on a bench, stripped, and turned on a shower without batting an eye at the lack of privacy. Crusted mud ran down his pale skin in rivulets to pool at his feet, and he dragged his fingers through his matted hair. 

Shaking the troubling thoughts from his mind, Stark put his fresh clothes next to Frosty's and began to pry off the armor; it fell to the ground in a heap of worn leather and tarnished metal. Taking off the boots was harder, and he made a trail of bloody footprints as he walked to the shower, but the pain was easily pushed to the side as warm water washed away months of struggling. 

The soap that Volkov had given them was dirt cheap, and Stark would probably have to shower a hundred times to get the stink of sweat and earth out of his skin, but it was nicer than anything he'd had before. Once he smelt like rotten citrus, he decided that was as good as it was going to get and turned off the water. The chill of the room was pushed away by the prison-issued garb.

Then he set to tackling the monstrosity that had grown on his face. Chunks of hair fell into the sink, revealing the stranger underneath; he stared into brown eyes without recognition. Though he tried to drag up some sort of memory, there was nothing, and after a minute, he turned away.

Rubbing his fingers along his smooth skin, Stark said, “I feel weird not having any facial hair. I mean, I hated that it was filthy, but it was kind of growing on me.”

He snickered at his pun as he put the razor into the disposal bin, and then he leaned against the sink as he waited for Frosty to stop fussing with his hair. For all that the man hadn't cared about his appearance when they were roughing it in the mountains, he was intent on returning it to its original slicked-back glory. However, no matter what he did, his hair would poof back into thick waves.

When the man finally gave up with a huff, Stark smiled. “Ready to find out who we actually are, Prince Charming?”

He had expected nervous anticipation, but Frosty seemed almost... afraid. “It could be something bad.”

The admission made Stark hesitate, but then he plastered a wide grin on his lips. “Now why would you think that? We just spent weeks together; I think I'd know if you were a supervillain or something.” When Frosty still didn't look convinced, Stark muttered loudly, “Though you are a bit of a jerk sometimes...”

That got the reaction he wanted; the other man scowled and lightly shoved his shoulder. “I was asking in regards to you, Nobody.”

“Me?” Stark asked incredulously as he headed towards the door. “Oh come on, you really think I'm a bad guy? ...Okay, I must admit I wouldn't be surprised. But I'm too handsome to arrest.”

Then, with a grin, he stepped out of the bathroom and into the barrel of a gun.

-o-o-o-

He paced the interior of the building, causing the bandages around his feet to be speckled red, and repeated for the dozenth time, "You've got the wrong guy. I know Reindeer Games; he isn't a supervillain."

"Mr. Stark, I know this must be very hard for you. Your team is on their way now, and they'll make sure Loki can't get to you," Dubow said, her tone less sympathetic and more annoyed than the last time she spoke. She was one of many Russian agents who had arrived after Frosty was led away by gunpoint, but his supposed affiliation with her organization 'SHIELD' did nothing to calm him.

"He wasn't trying to hurt me," Stark insisted, his words followed by a harsh cough. His pace slowed, and he clutched at his chest. Air shuddered through him, making the police and agents watching him concerned.

“Sir, you should sit down. You aren't-”

“I'm fine,” he snapped between pants, and they reluctantly backed off, leaving him to resume his laps. As he walked, his eyes were continuously drawn to the thick steel door barring him from Frosty. There was nothing but silence on the other side, and he wasn't sure if that signified a good thing or a bad thing.

Another ten minutes passed that way, but despite his claim to the contrary, he wasn't fine. His feet stung, his chest burned, and his body was at the end of its endurance. His stomach felt like an empty pit, but he hadn't touched the meal they had given him (they never even offered food to Frosty). Nor had he listened when they told him to lay down and get some sleep; his exhaustion did not outweigh his anxiety. However, black dots had entered his vision, and he knew that if he did not stop, his body was force him to. 

With dragging steps and slumped shoulders, he went to the ratty sofa and sat down. The lumpy cushions invited him to slump into them, and his head came to rest against the armrest. The people watching him looked relieved, at least until he started to tap Metallica songs into the coffee table.

"How much longer until these 'Avengers' get here and I can fix this mess?"

Dubow must have been anticipating that question, because she immediately answered, "Less than thirty minutes." 

Those thirty minutes passed at an agonizing crawl. There still was no sound from the jail cells, which was concerning given the fact that half a dozen guards had accompanied Frosty. Of course, 'accompanied' was understating it; they had locked him in heavy shackles and forced him into a cell at gunpoint. Frosty hadn't even resisted other than when Stark still stood between him and the angry Russians. He had been surprised, but once they told him that he was a monster, his expression had gone alarmingly blank, like he had been expecting that revelation all along.

But despite Frosty's response, Stark had not faltered in defending the other man. He maintained that just because he was Tony Stark (because there was no denying that one, given the file that they showed him) did not mean that Frosty, his friend that had watched his back for almost three months, was Loki, public enemy number one. 

However, such steadfastness only lasted as long as it took for the Avengers to arrive. There were three of them—a man in a gaudy red, white and blue uniform, a man with a massive hammer (and that wasn't an innuendo; he really did have a hammer), and a woman with fiery red hair—and they barreled in through the door prepared for a fight. Then they saw him, and the sheer relief and joy in their expressions made Stark feel like a fraud. 

“Tony!” the first man exclaimed, and before Stark could move, he was hauled up from the couch and engulfed in a crushing hug. "We were starting to think that you had died! How in the world did you end up in Russia?"

Stark would have replied had he not been released just to be dragged into another too-tight embrace. His feet were lifted from the ground, and he felt like a twig being held against a rock. 

"I had told them there was no way you could be dead," the other blond said jovially. "We shall have a large feast in honor of your return. You certainly look like you could use it!" Then his smile did an abrupt one-eighty. "My brother... He is here, is he not? I am glad that he did you no lasting harm. He will face justice for his actions, I assure you."

"But... Frosty didn't hurt me," Stark said; his words were met with disbelieving stares. “I'm serious. He's not a villain. He saved my life!"

The Avengers all stared at him while the other people in the room pretended that they couldn't see the drama unfolding. When no one spoke up, Stark insisted, “He can't be Loki. Loki is a bad guy, isn't he? The Joker to our Batman? Frosty isn't like that.”

This time, no one would meet his eyes, and if he were to describe their expressions, he would call it pity. Then their expressions mutated; Spangles' turned into anger, Hammer Time's into sorrow, and Ginger's into grim determination. It was the latter who spoke next. 

"Would you still defend him if you knew that it was his fault you needed saving in the first place?" 

Her green eyes pierced through him, seeking out his secrets. Though he had nothing to hide, he felt intimidated, and when he answered her, he couldn't help but doubt his conviction. "Not if it was an accident. I mean, a few things on our journey were his fault, but that doesn't mean he was trying to hurt me."

"But what if he was? Would you still defend a murderer?"

"No, but..." Stark was going to say, 'he isn't', but he couldn't get the words out. What evidence did he have to contradict their claims? That Frosty had been nice to him? Momentary kindness did not make a person a saint, especially when he had been jaded before the cliff. That Frosty had smiled and made jokes? Villains could be charismatic and have a sense of humor. That Frosty had saved his life? ...Well, apparently everything was his fault in the first place.

And yet, he had a hard time believing that Frosty was a villain. It wasn't so much a matter of reason as it was a firm conviction. The man he had been with was flawed, but he was not cruel; that was not a facet of his personality. So if he really was their enemy, if he really was evil, did that mean his wickedness stemmed from his memories? Could there be something hidden in his mind that made him into something that he wouldn't recognize?

Unable to answer his own questions, Stark squared his shoulders. "Show me proof, and then I'll believe you."

It boded ill how fast that evidence was supplied; Romanov had her phone offered to him in less than twenty seconds. He took it slowly, and when he looked at the screen, he felt his stomach drop. Even the weeks he spent being friends with Frosty—with Loki—couldn't eliminate the truth before him.

He forced himself to flip through photo after photo of Loki hurting people and laying waste to buildings. A part of him wanted to insist that the images were fake, especially when he stopped at one where a metal suit—the same one that he had woken up in—was firing at Loki. But he didn't, because he recognized the familiar way Loki tilted his head and the way he stood even if he couldn't recognize the insanity in those green eyes.

Dozens of pictures crossed the screen before he could no longer stomach the implications. He handed the device back to the woman, and under her scrutinization, he said, "You've made your point. I... I believe you." 

Then he glanced back at where Loki was locked up; when guilt stirred inside of him, he tried to crush it down, reminding himself that the man was no longer Frosty; he was a villain.

"So... How are we going to fix this?"

-o-o-o-

Metal clattered as Loki slowly walked forwards, but though shackles and chains bound him, he held his head high. It seemed that not even the weapons trained on him—Hawkeye in particular had his bow pointed at the god's eye with unnerving intensity—could intimidate him

But Stark knew Frosty better than that; he could see the uncertainty in each step, and he did not miss the furtive glances in his direction. Loki was just as afraid about what was going to happen as he was.

'Did you know that you were evil?' Stark wanted to ask. 'Were you lying to me? Or... Was that who you really are?'

A large part of him wanted to stop the events unfolding around him, especially as Romanov shoved Loki to his knees in front of a convoluted array of runes. In a Tower with his name written on it, surrounded by people who were supposed to be important to him, Stark wanted nothing more than to remember, but he didn't want to see Frosty become the monstrosity in those pictures. He didn't want to lose the only friend he had. And if that meant that he had to build memories from scratch... then he would be okay with that. But though he had told the Avengers that, they didn't listen; they believed that he was brainwashed.

"Start the spell," Romanov ordered. "If you do anything suspicious, I won't hesitate to shoot you."

"You won't hesitate to shoot me regardless of what I do," Loki murmured, but though fingers tensed on triggers and the bow string was an instant away from being released, he did nothing to resist. The only thing he did do was look up to meet Stark's eyes, and when their gazes met, something akin to regret flitted across the god's face. Then it was gone, and he placed his hands on the sigils. 

Green light saturated the air, and Stark watched it with an overwhelming sense of deja vu. He tensed, his body anticipating what would happen next even though his mind could not; the light exploded, and something in his brain snapped.

It was as if a dam had broken, and his once empty mind rapidly filled with water. Innumerable images drowned him out, and he gasped, his lungs hitching as if his pneumonia had returned. Hands grabbed at him as his body careened to the floor, but all he knew were the memories that roared through him, filling the gaps: Afghanistan. Iron Man. New York. 

When the flow at last ebbed, he felt sick, and not just because of the pain. He opened his eyes, but the fact that he was on the floor, his skin slick with sweat, did not matter to him. What did matter was Loki, who was curled up on the ground; no one was trying to comfort him, even as his eyelashes became damp and agony twisted his expression. 

But then Loki's pain was swept beneath a frigid mask, and jaded green eyes flung open, looking straight at Tony. 

Although that action had brought them both comfort mere minutes ago, now it only brought a sickening sense of wrongness. It wasn't right. Loki was evil. He was a monster. He was...

He had been a friend.

Finally Tony got his tongue working again. "So... the only magic you can do is make fires and summon capes, is it?"

Loki's face didn't betray any hint of emotion, nor did his voice. "Something like that."

Then he was surrounded by coruscating mist, and though Hawkeye loosed his arrow, he was too late. Loki vanished, and the barbed tip struck concrete.

-o-o-o-

Tony grunted as he was thrown through a wall and rolled to a stop. Dented armor dug into his bruised skin, and his breath hissed between his teeth as he got back to his feet. "Fucking supervillains..."

"Tony, you okay?" Steve called.

"I'm fine. Just peachy." Tony stomped towards the crumbling hole in the wall. "I'm just sick and tired of getting smacked around on what's meant to be my day off."

He launched into the air as Clint said, "Tell me about it. The only good thing these days is that Loki hasn't shown his face in months. Though knowing that nutcase, he's just waiting to attack us with something even worse."

"Yeah..." A frown crept onto Tony's face, but he shook it off. "We can worry about that some other time. Right now, I have a hot tub and martini waiting for me."

He threw himself back into the battle, and with each repulsor blast, he managed to increase the distance between him and his unwanted thoughts. He hadn't seen Loki since that day in the Tower, but all it took was one mention of the god to throw his mind back into the Russian wilderness.

Sometimes, on days like these, he almost missed being out there. He didn't miss the cold or the frostbite or getting pneumonia, and yet... There was something he did miss, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.

"Tony, behind you!" Clint shouted, and Tony spun around to see a missile coming straight for his face. He reacted immediately, flaring his repulsors and raising his arm to shield himself, but that wasn't enough to fix the consequences of his distraction.

Something grabbed him just before the missile collided, and as he was dragged through the air, he felt the heat of the explosion. Then he slammed into the ground, and the breath was knocked from his lungs for the second time in an hour. However, he knew that it was a cakewalk compared to what nearly happened, and as he climbed to his knees, he said, "Thanks for the tackle, Point Break."

Thor was not the one who answered him. "It seems like every time I leave you on your own, something tries to kill you. I had thought you better than this, Nobody."

Tony blinked at the sidewalk, and then he slowly turned his head to see familiar leather boots. As his eyes drifted upwards, he feared that he would be met with cold insanity. But when he saw Loki's face, it was Frosty who stared back at him with a nervous grin.

Though a fight was raging around them, in that moment, there was nothing but tense silence. Tony knew that the other Avengers were watching, ready to intervene at the first sign of hostility, and yet they waited for him to make a decision. He almost wished that they would speak up and tell him what to do, because in his mind, two very different scenes warred with each other. There was New York, which told him to get as far away from Loki and possible, and there was Russia, which filled an empty piece inside of him.

When the silence stretched for too long, Loki's grin began to slip, and his stance turned defensive. But then, despite what the god had done in the past, Tony found his lips quirking upwards.

"I think that can hardly be considered my fault, Frosty. But if you have such a problem with it, feel free to help out."

He waited with bated breath to see what Loki would do, and as he did so, he was aware that Thor had landed on a nearby roof. Loki noticed, but other than a faint grimace, he did not react. Instead, he focused on the android army wreaking havoc on the town, and his grin returned.

"Gladly." 

And then the god joined the battle, this time fighting with the Avengers and not against them.

 


End file.
